I can’t help but think that Holden Caulfield would hate Whole Foods. The nearest Whole Foods in my town is in a particularly chic neighborhood, and the parking lot is filled with gas-guzzling Mercedes SUV’s. Let’s just say that the yuppie to hippie to hipster ratio is less than ideal.

The meat department is huge and unapologetic. Grass-fed doesn’t mean cruelty-free, y’all, but there seems to be an air of acceptance. It’s at Whole Foods, so it’s good. The cows and chickens frolic in pastoral meadows. A huge sign in the produce section with the Top Ten Reasons to Buy Local Produce hangs above Pink Lady apples imported from New Zealand. (Said apples are admittedly delicious.)

Then again, it’s the only store in town full to the brim with organic versions of everything, a variety of Fair Trade coffee and yerba mate, more vegan ice cream than you could try in a lifetime,and adorable clerks. And they almost always play Prince when I’m there, which makes me smile and dance in the bulk grains section.